You Can Do This: Whitewater Rafting

I have to admit that Gatlinburg, Tennessee, is a tourist trap. But it happens to be an adorable, friendly, fun tourist trap on the edge of the undeniably awesome Great Smoky Mountains National Park. With half a million acres of roadless wilderness--the largest such expanse east of the Rockies--the Smokies have always been my go-to spot for outdoor sports and hiking trails. But after more than 10 years, I've still barely cracked the surface. And I hear that the fastest way to get around is by whitewater rafting: The area's Class IV rapids are supposed to be among the best in the States. So I hang up my hiking boots for a weekend to check it out.

WH Long Weekend

Mountain Mamas

I bring along my research assistant, Amanda. She loves to fly-fish, so she should feel right at home on the river--except this time she'll be tearing down it on a raft. On the drive to Gatlinburg, about 40 miles southeast of Knoxville, I tell her the (slightly embellished) story of how I was nearly tossed overboard on my first whitewater trip in West Virginia about four years ago. She squirms as I describe the freezing water and jagged rocks. Hee-hee.... Torturing newbies is one of the best parts of being an adventure writer.

First stop: Our two-bedroom log cabin, which we found through Mountain Rentals of Gatlinburg. It's tucked in the woods, but it's still swank, with a gas fireplace, a full kitchen with stainless-steel appliances, and a private porch with a big hot tub. Around sunset, we head downtown and hop on the Gatlinburg Sky Lift. Chugging up the 1,800-foot Crockett Mountain in our swaying yellow chairs, we flash cheesy smiles at an automatic tourist-cam about 20 feet from the top. Silly, sure, but the view of the glowing town surrounded by dramatic dark peaks keeps us gawking for half an hour.

Into the Spin Cycle

At 6:30 a.m., we're up and carbo loading on pancakes before our 40-minute drive to meet our guide in the northeast corner of Cherokee National Forest, near the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Grant O'Dell, a self-described "Appalachian American" with sculpted arms and a killer smile, is there to greet us.

"The Pigeon River is full of Class IV action," O'Dell informs our group (the two of us plus four more newbies). The scale of difficulty tops out at Class VI--violent whirlpools that would make Bear Grylls soil his neoprene pants. When O'Dell asks, "So, what kinda trip do you want? Wild or safe?" Amanda yells, "Safe!" and the others--two guys and two girls--bob their heads in total agreement. I hope this won't be a kiddie ride.

O'Dell schools us in the basic commands--"All forward!" (paddle front to back), "All back!" (back to front), and "Relax" (paddles out of the water)--and we hoist the heavy inflatable raft into the 50-degree water. Amanda and I settle in at the back, where we stand a better chance of staying dryish. Once in position, O'Dell, who's steering in the back, orders, "All forward!"

We start off in quiet amber-colored water--basically gentle ripples and a few scattered boulders. We practice stroking in sync, the key to maneuvering through the rocky gorge ahead. Within a minute, we approach four-foot Class III waves, and my muscles tense. "All forward hard!" O'Dell yells. We crash into a wave, and icy water explodes over the raft as we drop into a deep hole with whitewater churning all around. We dig our way out, and my arms and shoulders burn from the effort. Definitely not a kiddie ride.

Coming out of the hole, we move into a stretch of Class IV rapids complete with waist-high waves. And boulders! They're everywhere. Suddenly the front of the raft rises up, then pitches right. Over our screams, O'Dell shouts, "Brace!" We lean into the raft's center, feet planted firmly. Amanda's side slams into a boulder and she's thrown into the middle of the raft. Before I can ask if she's OK, she exchanges megawatt grins with O'Dell. Looks like someone already loves rafting as much I do.

Kinky Country Dancing

The next morning we're feeling lethargic from the post-rafting martinis we'd had at The Peddler, Gatlinburg's best steakhouse, the night before. Moving at a snail's pace, we eventually get in the car and motor up a curvy, paved road to Clingman's Dome--at 6,643 feet, the highest peak in the Smokies. At the top, it's a frigid 40 degrees and the wind is howling. On a clear day, the view is 360 degrees, but today we're fogged in, and the red spruce trees cut ghostly silhouettes. We hang out until the cold starts to get to us, then jump back in the car and drive 45 minutes to Pigeon Forge, where we'll gather strength for a true Tennessee-style night out.

That evening, we leave Dollywood to the busloads of senior citizens and instead join a massive crowd outside the 1,500-seat Country Tonite Theatre, which houses one of the state's most famous variety shows. For the next two hours, we listen to Nashville Star–worthy singers belt out hits, nearly pee our pants laughing at comedy skits, and shake our heads in disbelief as coed dancers turn Riverdance on its head with vigorous pelvic thrusts. So much for Southern conservatism.

Nickelback Shops Here

Our last stop on the way out of town is the absurdly huge Tanger Outlet Center, which has more than 100 stores, including Nike and Banana Republic. There's nothing like it back home, so now no trip to the Smokies will be complete without a visit here. After digging through hundreds of racks with sore arms, I get downright cranky when some dude holds up the checkout line. After a deep sigh and glare, I'm told that he's Daniel Adair, the drummer for Nickelback. All right, so he's not exactly Bono, but it gives me enough of a thrill to keep me awake during the five-hour drive home.

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